


A Dance Lesson

by got_spunk



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AND OH LOOK, Brotp, Friendship, Gen, Grantaire being grumpy, IS THAT A PRINCESS DIARIES REFERENCE?, Marius being adorable, WHY YES IT IS, also some dancing, and some swearing, but they're bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:03:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/got_spunk/pseuds/got_spunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You will be a princess, Marius Pontmercy,” Grantaire hissed and Marius choked back a half-horrified laugh. “As God as my witness, you will leave this apartment a fucking swan, and when you take the floor with Cosette, you will be flawless. Do you understand me?” Marius just looked at him, trepidation and something like respect jostling for dominance on his face. “I said, do you understand me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dance Lesson

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like marius would definitely go to grantaire for help with the first dance at his wedding with cosette, partly because marius would not like the idea of going to lessons AT ALL, and partly because it's canon that r dances, why is there not more r dancing in this fandom?
> 
> ergo...this.

Grantaire did not consider himself a particularly violent person, but whoever had taken it upon him-or-herself to stick his-or-her finger on the buzzer and just  _leave_  it there, well, they were never going to find the body, because,  _my God, it’s eight o’clock in the morning on Sunday, who the_ fuck –

 

“What? What do you want?” he yelled from the bed.

 

“It’s Marius,” came the muffled reply. “Let me in?” Grantaire groaned.

 

“Pontmercy. It’s always Pontmercy,” he muttered to himself, swinging his legs over the bed. He was wearing a ratty t-shirt of Enjolras’ and pajama pants with a hole in the knee, but Marius had seen him in far, far worse, and really, he was in no mood to impress. He stomped out of the bedroom, kicked aside a folder of papers that had the gall to be in the way, and with a brief sigh at the ceiling, threw open the door. Marius stood there awkwardly, cowed by the glare his friend was shooting at him, and looking – _oh, hell_ – utterly pitiful.

 

“Help,” he pleaded, and Grantaire stepped aside to let him in.

 

“What is it?” he asked tiredly over his shoulder, going to the kitchen to have a cup of the coffee Enjolras had made when he got up at six in the fucking morning, at which point, Grantaire, in a fit of naivety, had thought to himself, _I’m so glad I get to sleep in today_. It was his own damn fault. He had tempted the universe, and the universe had leaned back and grinned. His own. Damn. Fault.

 

“It’s the dance,” Marius explained fretfully from where he sat on the couch. “The first dance.”

 

“The first dance,” Grantaire repeated, not really listening. He took a swallow from his mug and choked. Enjolras, bless him, made terrible coffee.

 

“I can’t dance,” Marius moaned. Grantaire, pouring the coffee down the sink, grimaced.

 

“There are classes for that, Marius, you and Cosette could go together and be disgustingly adorable as per usual. Hell, don’t go. She’ll probably think your two left feet are the most precious things in the world – ”

 

“Grantaire,” Marius interrupted fiercely, “it is the first dance at our _wedding_ , it is the first dance I will have with my _wife_ , and everyone we know will be there. _I will not screw this up_.”

 

“So go to a dance class – ”

 

“I am,” Marius said pointedly, staring hard at Grantaire. Grantaire stared back, uncomprehending.

 

“Okay, good for you, thanks for waking me up – ”

 

“Grantaire,” Marius said emphatically and realization slapped Grantaire flush across the face.

 

“You think _I_ can teach you to dance?” he demanded. “Me? Look, I’m only human, Marius, teaching you to dance is gonna take a professional and at least one medic standing by – ”

 

“We could call Joly,” Marius put in helpfully. He looked at Grantaire, doing the goddamn puppy eyes thing and it was too early for this and oh,  _goddammit_ ,  _whatever, universe, you win_.

 

“Fine,” Grantaire grumbled. Marius beamed. “C’mere, you.” Setting aside his coffee, Grantaire pulled Marius up and put a hand on his chest. “Stand up straight. Collarbone flat, shoulders back – not that far back – ” He surveyed his friend, his actually pretty ridiculously tall friend, Marius needed to stop slouching so much. “Not bad. Now put this hand on my waist – yeah, right there – and hold my hand – no, no, no, just let – it’s not a dead fish, Marius – okay, yeah, there we go. Okay.” He looked up at Marius; the other man looked down, blinking. “So, what are we talking here, a waltz, or what?”

 

“Um,” Marius said. Grantaire resisted the urge to thump his forehead.

 

“Let’s start with the waltz, then,” he suggested. “If you can waltz you can…well, you can waltz. Don’t look at me like that, you’re the one who came to _me_ , sucker.”

 

He led Marius through the basic step, and Marius wasn’t _awful_ , per se, he just had no sense of rhythm. None. Whatsoever. And then, once the poor bastard had figured out how to manage _that_ , his carriage collapsed inward and his arms went limp and Grantaire could have been just waking up, wouldn’t that have been delightful, but no, no, he had to go and be a nice person.

 

“Your upper body can’t move, Marius!” he lamented for the umpteenth time as Marius quailed. “ _You_ control the movement, _you_ lead, so you can’t _schlump! Princesses don’t schlump, Marius!_ ”

 

“I’m not a princess,” Marius protested. “I’m trying, it’s just the feet plus the – ”

 

“You will be a princess, Marius Pontmercy,” Grantaire hissed and Marius choked back a half-horrified laugh. “As God as my witness, you will leave this apartment a fucking _swan_ , and when you take the floor with Cosette, _you will be flawless_. Do you understand me?” Marius just looked at him, trepidation and something like respect jostling for dominance on his face. “I said, _do you understand me?_ ”

 

“Yes,” Marius blurted. “Okay. Yeah, no, I can do this.”

 

“Yes, you can.” Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “Now, do it again!”

 

He drilled Marius until he thought Marius would cry, then drilled him more, merciless and unyielding. It was only when Marius could execute at least thirty-two bars worth of dancing without fumbling more than twice and rotating all the while that he stopped.

 

“That will do,” he told Marius as gravely as he could manage, turning off the little CD player ( _if nothing else_ , he thought wryly, _I’ve gotten my Tchaikovsky fix for the week_ ).

 

“Really?” Marius asked, so earnest that Grantaire couldn’t help but snort.

 

“You still need to practice, like, all the time. Do it at the grocery store, at the ATM, whenever you’re waiting in line somewhere. People’ll think you’re weird, but it means you don’t have to talk to anyone, so there’s that.”

 

“I can do that,” Marius said, nodding rapidly, almost eagerly. And the thing was, Grantaire knew he’d do it, knew that at any given moment during the day, Marius Pontmercy would be waltzing by himself in public, oblivious to the stares of strangers and humming a slightly flat _Swan Lake_. And Grantaire grinned, because, getting him up before noon or not, well, it was Marius. And Marius was.

 

Well, he was Marius.

 

“I meant it before, you know,” he remarked as he dug around in the fridge for something to scrounge together and call lunch. “Cosette’s not going to care if you miss a step or two, although you definitely won’t, ‘cause I’ll be watching.” Marius rolled his eyes. ”She’s head over heels. You both are going to be just fine. More than fine.” He squinted at something that might have once been fruit. Enjolras wasn’t any better cleanliness-wise, what with the world to save and all, but his apartment wasn’t quite at the level of Joly-would-keel-over-and-die that Grantaire’s was. “How do you feel about a grilled cheese sandwich? It’s comfort food, right?”

 

“You don’t have to – ” Marius protested, but Grantaire glared at him and he smiled, a little exasperatedly. "A grilled cheese sounds great."

 

They sat on the couch together, eating and laughing, glad for a Sunday off and a wedding to come.

 

“You’re not a half bad partner,” Marius informed Grantaire, nudging his shoulder. Grantaire bumped him back, grinning.

 

“Yeah, well. You’ll do fine.”

 

(And Marius did, and though he fumbled the spin, Grantaire was right:

 

Cosette didn’t mind a bit)

**Author's Note:**

> maybe part of a series 'verse? i dunno. we'll see :)


End file.
